


Time Out of Mind

by misereremolly



Series: Time Out of Mind [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bad Decisions, First Time (sort of), M/M, One Night Stands, Time Travel, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:31:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misereremolly/pseuds/misereremolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected trip through time and a chance encounter has Julian Bashir contemplating the consequences of certain actions and their reactions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Takes place after Starfleet evacuates DS9 at the start of the Dominion War, early in the three months that pass between “Call to Arms” and “A Time to Stand.” See end of final chapter for more notes (warning: spoilers).
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to lelek for giving priceless feedback on earlier drafts of this story. So very grateful for your encouragement. 
> 
> And a little shout-out to bmouse for some 11th hour cheerleading.
> 
> There is a sequel in the works but this can be read as a stand-alone story.

It was times like this that Julian Bashir wished he’d spent more time on his temporal mechanics studies back at the Academy. 

He’d only taken the one required course, and that experience had been more than enough to threaten him with everlasting headaches. At every meeting the class was confronted with new possibilities for the impact of a single person meddling with a single strand of the tapestry they called the space-time continuum, and then they were required to calculate these possibilities with formulae and theorems that were, even to his enhanced mind, not only impractical given the infinite nature of the universe, but also utterly impossible to prove. 

All actions and subsequent reactions had their consequences, the instructors had said. Some minor, others drastic. So, just like every other intrepid cadet hoping to build an illustrious career with an organization well known for its propensity for encountering the strangest of the strange in the great unknowns of outer space, he had faithfully participated in training simulations designed to teach proper conduct for the unintentional time traveler. Non-interference was always the first priority, but the rules did grudgingly acknowledge that sometimes contact with the locals is inevitable and necessary. 

Although Julian had carefully rehearsed the first rule of engagement -- if you must lie, stick as close to the truth as possible –- none of his role-playing assignments had ever involved anything so perversely mundane as having to explain away his rather fashion-forward uniform to another Starfleet officer.

“Is that one of the new designs?” Julian tried not to fidget as a young Andorian Ensign in a red jacket and white collar gave him an appraising look. “I think I like it. More flattering on a wider variety of skin tones.”

“Erm, yes. One of them. And the shirt comes in different colors, you see, to indicate the different divisions. I was just testing it out for a friend of mine, he’s one of the designers, actually–”

“Well sir, that’s fine, but you’d better change into standard uniform. There’s a dress code for tonight’s reception.”

“Right. Well, about that. I’d like to, but my things got mixed up in transport. Do you happen to know where I could borrow a coat for a few hours?”

“Follow me, sir.” 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Julian followed the Ensign through the pristine corridors of the Babel Conference Halls and into a small locker room. 

Barely an hour ago he and Jadzia had been standing on a transporter pad aboard the Defiant, ready to beam down to Babel to run a quick salvage mission for medical supplies. Provisions had been scarce since the day Starfleet was forced to abandon Deep Space Nine, and all ships in the fleet had standing orders to collect essentials from unoccupied Federation infrastructure whenever possible. Babel’s northern hemisphere had been all but abandoned after the residents fled the fallout of a Jem’Hadar strike on a shipyard orbiting above, and the planet itself was too far away for the Dominion to hold down without wasting precious manpower. So the famed Babel Conference Halls -– proud site of some of the most important diplomatic summits in Federation history -– were left alone, in ruins. 

Or at least they were in his time. 

Somehow during beamdown, their transporter patterns had been disrupted by a rogue temporal anomaly passing undetected through the region. By the time the technician at the controls noticed the problem it had been too late to safely pull them out of the transporter sequence. And so they’d arrived on Babel. Only the problem was they’d arrived a good couple of decades earlier than they’d planned. 

And as if that wasn’t complicated enough, they’d also arrived a good ten miles apart: he had landed smack in the middle of a conference that was taking place in the Halls, while Jadzia had been dropped at the local Starfleet base clear across town.

Fortunately their combadges still worked, and although they were unable to establish communication with the Defiant, Jadzia was confident that she would be able to piece together a solution from her location. Since simply strolling out of the Babel Halls in the middle of a conference was sure to get him stopped and questioned by security, they’d decided that blending in with the locals was probably the safest thing for him to do. For the moment, Julian’s sole job was to stay out of history’s way.

His Andorian guide pulled a red wrap coat from a locker and punched a few buttons on a clunky PADD before extending both to Julian. “Here you are, sir. Just sign here.”

An aphorism Garak had once shared with him –- _the truth is usually just an excuse for lack of imagination_ -– slithered across the back of his mind. He sincerely hoped his creative mettle wouldn’t be put too strongly to the test before he could get out of here.

After only the slightest hesitation he took the proffered PADD, signing _Dr. Singh_ on the line.


	2. Chapter 2

It was just past second moonrise when the courtesy bells chimed a gentle summons to the reception. Julian adopted an expression of polite disinterest to discourage any would-be conversationalists and fell into step just on the heels of a group of identically dressed Starfleet officers. 

He felt far more confident now that he looked the part, and for the time being he’d decided to simply be grateful for the respite from the duties of a doctor in wartime. The immediate situation was actually starting to seem like a scenario out of one of his favorite holonovels, which was a somewhat cheering prospect: donning a disguise and slipping into a party uninvited, scoping out the surroundings with cocktail in hand, conversing with mysterious villains, pursuing beautiful _femmes fatales_ …

Not that he was expecting to find such colorful characters here. But he figured he’d had plenty of practice playing it cool under all sorts of simulated circumstances, and here was a chance to deliver a command performance. It might even be a little fun. 

His combadge twittered from its hiding place between his undershirt and the inner lining of his borrowed uniform. Glancing around, he bowed his head and edged away from the throng. “Go ahead,” he murmured.

“ _Julian, it’s me,_ ” Jadzia Dax responded softly. “ _I’ve made some headway here and I think we should be able to leave by morning._ ”

“That’s good. Is there anything I can do?”

“ _Find a secure location for beam out. I’ll need you to contact me from there at 0200._ ”

“Why 0200?”

“ _I need to finalize the calculations that will take you back through the temporal vortex from your coordinates, but there’s a lot of staff here right now. I can’t really get much done without being noticed._ ”

“Alright. I’ll contact you then.”

“ _Stay out of trouble, Julian,_ ” Dax teased, the tone of her voice slipping from efficient to mischievous. 

“That should be easy,” he sniffed. “This looks like your run-of-the-mill, standard issue stuffy and boring diplomatic function.”

“ _Looks can be deceiving. Curzon has a lot of memories from diplomatic balls that are anything but boring. Dax out._ ”

Shaking his head at Jadzia’s admonishment, he turned the corner with flawlessly casual flair and paused just inside the entrance to the ballroom. 

It was beautiful -- a pleasing hybrid of architectural design from Earth’s Edwardian period and the artisan skill of Andoria. Columns carved from Babel’s unique blue-brown marble towered above him, and flat panels fashioned from the same stone bordered a pair of tall archways against the back wall. Those archways and columns were topped with ornate brasswork of Andorian design, and coordinating brass lamps and candelabras illuminated the interior corridors with a faint glow. 

Splendid chandeliers of blue Andorian glass hung from etched steel beams, softly glittering their sapphire light about the dim edges of the room. The sultry color blurred the figures at the edge of his vision, the furthest reaches of the room rendered nearly ethereal, fantastical, the outlines of people melting into hazy shadows. But the truly breathtaking feature of the ballroom was the resplendent domed steel and stained glass ceiling that gently filtered and refracted the light from Babel’s moons into abstract patterns on the center of the floor. 

It stung to think that he would never have a chance to see this place again; when he returned to his time it would be gone forever. Sure, the Federation might design a replacement, but it would be a long time before they’d have the resources to build something as luxurious as this again. 

_Art and beauty, the casualties of war that no one really thinks about until it’s all over and too late to get them back._

Even if they somehow managed to defeat the Dominion, they’d still be pouring everything they had into aid and charity and basic reconstruction efforts for years to come. Then one day the memorials would be built, plaques and statues and edifices that possessed their own brand of somber beauty but weren’t there to delight the eye but press the weight of memory into the soul, and ultimately reprimand them later when the next war inexorably came. 

_Never mind that now. Act like you’ve seen this place a hundred times before._

He straightened his shoulders with deliberate sharpness and made his way further into the reception, willing away that bitter gloom which slipped so easily inside the ragged crevasses the war had carved into his heart and mind. 

Small flowering trees in pots inlaid with Andorian tile were elegantly scattered among the chairs and couches and tables where Starfleet officers mingled with ambassadors from all over the quadrant. Could any famous dignitaries be here? Sarek of Vulcan? Kor of Qo’noS? Pardek of Romulus? And wasn’t Curzon Dax working as a diplomat around this time, too? _Now wouldn’t that be something…_

Not that he would actually introduce himself to the luminaries of this time. Putting himself in the path of such visible movers and shakers in history would be completely inappropriate. But a little celebrity sight-seeing never hurt anyone, and would make for some great stories to tell to Miles over drinks when he got back. Maybe, now that he’d actually been in the presence of some of Miles’s contemporaries and seen that world with the eyes of an adult, his friend would even tell a few stories about his first years with Starfleet, about having to become a soldier so soon in his career. But for now, a martini, stirred not shaken, -- _or wait, is it shaken, not stirred?_ \-- and a little people-watching from a quiet corner seemed just the thing to help bide the time. 

Peering through the dim light at the edge of the room, he saw a group of Cardassians lingering off to the side of the bar, picking up their drinks. They were keeping to themselves, but the rest of the assembled guests were apparently receiving the presence of the Cardassian cohort with nonchalant amiability. 

_So that’s got to put us sometime around or before 2347. If the Federation-Cardassian Wars had begun, they would not be getting on so well here…_

Which meant that the Miles O’Brien of this time was probably only recently enlisted with Starfleet, with no idea that the Wars would soon begin and make him into a soldier and a killer and the ‘hero of Setlik III,’ and a bitterly changed man for the experience. 

Julian refocused his attention on the room before his mind could spare much thought to the little Jules of this time, blissfully ignorant of any wars to come but no doubt proving a terrible disappointment to his parents at this very moment.

The Cardassian ambassador, a tall man grandly attired in a suit of white and green, crossed to the bar and moved into the center of a small orbit of soberly dressed diplomatic assistants from his homeworld. With a flourishing gesture, the ambassador started to raise a toast as they walked away, but as the drink touched his lips he paused and cast a grimace down at the contents of his glass. Turning aside, he hissed something to one of his aides -- a young man that Julian couldn’t quite see -- who took the rejected drink and sketched a little bow from the shoulders. The ambassador and his entourage moved on, and Julian squinted uncertainly at the Cardassian aide coming back to the bar. 

What he saw stopped him cold.

 _It – it can’t be…_

The young Cardassian moved toward him with the measured care of a coiling serpent, his languid bearing underpinned by a hair-trigger energy that seemed to crackle just beneath his grey skin. Striking blue eyes snapped with an electric intensity. He was utterly magnificent -- and absolutely unmistakable.

_Garak. Elim Garak._


	3. Chapter 3

Julian’s senses sparked and went haywire. The noise of the ballroom throttled back to a distant hum, his feet took root into the ground, and he was fairly sure that his eyes were just about to roll out of their sockets. 

_Garak._

For a moment he wondered if the capricious light in the room might be casting apparitions, or if the temporal vortex might have somehow addled his sense of perception; but no, a few deliberate blinks and another squint through the dim blue light confirmed it -- 

_Garak is here._

Helplessly frozen in place, he stood gaping as young Garak smoothly brushed right past him to address the woman behind the bar. 

“Pardon me, but there seems to have been a mistake.” Garak spoke in fluent Standard, but the musical lilt in the young Cardassian’s voice was surprisingly strong. “The ambassador requested a glass of kanar, and this appears to be Babel port. I’m sure it’s a very fine vintage, but you’ll understand of course that this is not really what he had in mind.” 

The bartender looked a little put out by his Cardassian loquaciousness. “I apologize, sir. We’ve just run out of kanar here, but I’ll get some more from the galley.” She took his glass and exited through a side door, leaving Garak alone at the bar.

Julian tried and failed to ideate beyond his shock, but all he could think was that watching a young Elim Garak ordering drinks had to be, absolutely, without a doubt, the wildest _non sequitur_ of his career thus far – and that was really something, given how often he had encountered the inexplicable and bizarre in his tenure as one of Starfleet’s finest. 

He continued to stare from his place just a few feet behind, totally and hopelessly entranced. Somehow this young Garak managed to be wholly exotic and warmly familiar to him all at once, every similarity counterbalanced by an equally weighted difference. The young man’s silhouette was more sleek than sturdy at this stage in his life, but the set of his chest shoulders were still broad, even if they weren’t quite filled out to their full strength. And his clothes -- that high-necked coat was rather like the sort his older counterpart preferred, if a bit more daring in its fit, right down to that clever bit of tailoring that always had Julian longing to smooth his hand down the proud curve of the Cardassian’s back. 

With a little jolt it occurred to him that his unexpected trip through time had granted him a once in a lifetime gift: the chance to steal a glance at this man’s youth, to glimpse a part of Garak’s life that he’d thought would always be an enigma to him. At sight alone, he already felt as though he had unraveled some small corner of the murky web Garak wove so carefully around his past. 

And for once he actually had the upper hand: this Garak was so deliciously unaware that someone who knew him so well was here, watching him so closely. 

The faintly illicit circumstances heightened the thrill now rushing through every nerve in his body, sending tremors down to the tips of his fingers and squeezing his lungs until he was nearly as breathless as the day they’d first met. _I should -- should I say something? What should I say? Actions, reactions, consequences --_

“Have we met, Lieutenant?”

Julian started as Garak’s voice cut into his thoughts with uncanny precision.

“Uh, what?” 

“I asked -- have we met before?” Garak’s head turned slightly and he tossed the words over his shoulder in a tone that Julian recognized at once: a warning sheathed in mildness. “You’re staring at me, Lieutenant, and I was under the impression that Humans usually try to avoid staring at people that they don’t know.”

“I - I’m not sure,” he stammered, cursing inwardly. _Well done, Julian. Very smooth. Starfleet and MI6 would be so proud._

Taking a slow breath, he faked a confident smile and soldiered on with the first thing that came to mind. “Actually, you do remind me of someone I know,” he continued, pretending that his delivery rendered the phrase less cliché. 

Garak turned around. “Ah. A Human with a Cardassian friend? Tell me, Lieutenant, do you know many Cardassians?” 

_He’s–_ Julian’s thoughts sputtered to a stall as he finally got a good, close look. _He’s so--!_

He’d always considered Garak a striking man, possessed of that attractive charisma which certain older men were blessed with. But he’d never really tried to picture Garak as a young man – he hadn’t seen the point, though that hadn’t stopped him from running a quick search of the Federation image database that he'd known would be fruitless from the get go. This was illuminating indeed, and even with his history of attraction to the spy, Julian still found himself completely thrown off balance by the charmingly boyish looks of the Garak standing before him now. 

_He’s -- oh God, is he younger than me?_ Sculpted by blue shadow, young Garak’s round face was nearly cherubic -- _is there even such a thing as a semi-reptilian cherub?_ \-- which proved an odd juxtaposition against the hardness lurking in his pale eyes. The overall effect was an affecting blend of raw youth and harsh experience that Julian found very compelling. 

Very, very compelling. 

An uncomfortable heat kindling in his belly, he feebly answered: “Well, not exactly.” 

“I see,” Garak said, pairing his words with a skeptical raise of his chin that made it clear that he didn’t see at all. Julian found himself pinned by a haughty version of that narrow-eyed stare he’d seen his Garak use on others many times before. That ‘you are annoying me, but I am too suspicious of you to turn my back on you just yet’ look was almost comical to see on someone so young, but only just so: even like this, Garak was pretty damned intimidating. 

Julian could feel the possibilities starting to slip through his fingers. _I really ought to retreat, if anything for the sake of the space-time continuum, if not my pride_ \-- but even as the thought flashed through his mind, he knew that he would not. Could not! He didn’t want to lose this chance to—

To what? To see whether this Garak might let him slip under those young scales, to get under his skin? To leverage a permanent upper hand in their always strange and ever undefined relationship? 

_Just admit it,_ a taunting whisper added to the list, _he’s incredible and you want to flirt with him._

And with that, that familiar suppressed attraction he had for his Garak refused to be ignored any longer. Rearing up like a cornered and deadly snake, that complex set of emotion and desire started to intertwine with his rapidly growing physical attraction to this Garak, its sharp fangs piercing into his mounting desire and refusing to budge, its venom searing a trail of fire through his blood and leaving him more than a little shaken and befuddled in its wake. A quick breath failed to clear his head in any useful way, but young Garak was still waiting, a challenge in his eyes that spurred fresh determination to recover and advance. 

An idea came to him on a swell of adrenaline. It was time for a little experiment. The control variable: literature.

Ducking as though he were about to share a salacious secret, he pitched his voice so that Garak was forced to edge a little closer in order to hear. “Actually, I’d like to ask your opinion on something, if you don’t mind.” 

Garak’s eyeridges lifted in skeptical anticipation, prompting him to go on. 

“Have you read Shoggoth’s third enigma tale?”

Success. Garak’s lips parted in an expression of astonishment that was endearingly familiar, the skepticism fleeing from his face as pure disbelief settled in its stead. “How…how is that _you_ are familiar with Shoggoth’s work?”

“A friend gave me a copy of the collected tales,” he replied, deciding that a flabbergasted young Garak was a delightful sight indeed.

“One of your Cardassian friends?” 

Julian grinned and raised his hand in a correcting gesture. “Ah – I don’t remember saying that my friend was a Cardassian!” 

Garak conceded the point with a little half-smile.

“Now,” Julian continued, “my friend told me that the fun with the enigma tales is in figuring out exactly what crime each character is guilty of committing.”

“That’s right. Surely you Humans have mystery stories as well?” 

“We do. But I happen to come from a culture where one is innocent until proven guilty. So our mysteries are usually about uncovering who is guilty of committing a crime. All suspects have a fair chance at being found innocent.”

“It sounds so very straightforward.” Garak replied, his voice silken. “The perfect entertainment, I imagine, for those who prefer to avoid more profound forms of intellectual stimulation.” 

Maybe this Garak meant his words just as they appeared to be: an insult that would lead to a dismissal. But he’d had enough experience arguing with his Garak to be able to coax out the synonymic possibilities in what had been said and alter the subtext of their conversation. Those verbal slights-of-hand had happened all too often in conversations with his older Garak, that ever unspoken mutual attraction asserting itself as the two of them carefully probed the boundaries of Human-Cardassian flirtation. 

Feeling a little frisson of anticipation, he led the young Cardassian into the first steps of that familiar and seductive dance of words. 

“Actually, I find them very stimulating,” he murmured as he took a step closer, savoring the way this Garak’s eyes widened in surprise at the shift in undertone. His Garak was always so unflappable. “Mystery novels toy with our expectations. A character that we would assume was guilty based solely on our own preconceived notions may in fact turn out to be completely innocent. Or someone who seemed innocent may in fact turn out to be guilty as sin.”

“And do you actually find some kind of misguided comfort in such vagueness?” As he’d hoped, Garak wasn’t backing down -- quite the opposite, in fact -- and his stomach flipped with glee as the young Cardassian moved even closer, gearing up for another volley. “It’s a wonder your Federation maintains as much order as it does. You Humans may prefer unspecifics, but we Cardassians prefer certainties.” 

“Oh? Then what about Norrel?” he asked, knowing exactly what his Garak thought of this particular character in the tale. “I thought the end of his story was left pretty unfinished and uncertain. Sure, he was eventually found to be guilty of sedition, but I thought he was the very last person you would actually expect to have committed that crime -- and that was never really addressed!” 

“Shoggoth was not interested in confronting the prejudices of his readers, or with indulging in sentimental platitudes about being open-minded,” Garak retorted. 

“And here I always thought that an open mind was the essence of intellect.”

“Having an open mind isn’t a problem in and of itself, Lieutenant; it’s having a sentimental attitude that can turn it into a problem.”

When his Garak made arguments like that, Julian always fancied that he heard the barest, most subtle undercurrent of melancholy in his voice. But young Garak’s thickly lilting voice rang with absolute conviction. 

“So we aren’t supposed to feel even a little bit sorry for Norrel? In the end, he only started spreading those rumors against the council for the sake of his family.” 

“Not at all! Norrel was a Legate and his first responsibility should have been to Cardassia. His fate confirms our confidence in the State and assures us that our continued loyalty will be rewarded. But really, Lieutenant, this is all beside the point. The purpose of reading Shoggoth’s work is to develop the logical mind.” 

Julian raised his eyebrows in surprise. Apparently this Garak hadn’t yet developed his relish for exegesis. Or maybe he just figured the effort would be wasted on a Human. If Garak wanted to change the tack of their argument, he was happy to oblige. Julian usually knew better than to argue with Garak on the finer points of Cardassian patriotism – even the most innocuous teasing could result in a scathing lecture on Federation exceptionalism -- but he had left an opening that was just too much to resist. “And what about the improvement of the imaginative mind? And creative thinking? Surely you Cardassians are invested in that, too. Or do you really think that the Cardassian people actually aspire to be more like Vulcans?” 

A beat passed. Garak blinked at the direct challenge, his expression turning dangerous as he hissed, “Who are you to say what I think?”

Julian was brought up short, abruptly realizing that the variables involved when he played this game with _his_ Garak, the one who had years of experience smiling his tailor’s smile while tamping down on the seething instincts of the assassin within, would actually not be the same as the variables involved in throwing down a gauntlet at the feet of _this_ Garak. For a brief moment, he was terrified that he had been too incautious, that he had pushed too far, that he would get a fist to his face for his presumption and the room would dissolve into chaos and the space-time continuum would fall apart at the seams…

But a sensual smile curved Garak’s pale, full lips with sinful benediction. “After all, Lieutenant, I thought you wanted to ask me about my opinions, not invent ones for me.” 

Over the course of their debate they’d edged closer and closer to each other, to the point where they were now standing practically chest to chest, and in the silent pause that scant distance between them seemed positively indecent. Along with his sudden sensitivity to Garak’s closeness came an excruciating awareness of his own physicality: the thudding beat of his heart, the pulse of his blood that flushed his skin and warmed his body -- and he thought he could see the same heat mirrored within the other man’s eyes. 

Neither of them noticed that the bartender was standing there with the kanar until she awkwardly cleared her throat.

Without breaking Julian’s gaze, Garak took the glass. “I am sorry, but I must to deliver this drink to my Ambassador.” The words were cool, but his voice was as smooth and burning as a sip of the amber liquid now cradled in his grey hand. “If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant?”

His lips felt dry. “Doctor, actually. Doctor Singh. And you are…?” 

Wariness crept back into the Cardassian’s eyes. Julian felt a pang of loss as he watched him resurrect his protective walls. “My name is Garak, Doctor.” 

He didn't want this to end, not now, but he was forced to recognize that if he was already blurting out his title and name it was probably much safer to bring this to a close. “Well Mister Garak, I hope we can continue our conversation some other time.” Unable to resist, he laid a solicitous hand on the Cardassian’s shoulder. “I’m so glad to have made such an _interesting_ new friend today.” 

He dropped his hand and offered a polite little bow from the shoulders, watching as Garak recovered from his surprise at the contact and did the same. Riding high on his perfect parting _coup de grâce_ , Julian turned and walked away, smirking to himself as he felt the Cardassian’s stunned gaze following his back. 

He made it halfway across the room before it occurred to him that he’d never actually ordered a drink. 

It wasn’t until he’d seated himself at a quiet table in the corner that he realized with profound dismay that Garak was probably here at the conference for a reason that went far, far beyond the obvious. 

_And if that reason has anything to do with the Obsidian Order, I probably don’t want to be around long enough to find out what it is._


	4. Chapter 4

The light of the third moon was just starting to filter through the prismatic glass of the ballroom ceiling. Some Starfleet personnel were still milling about, drinking and talking, but most of the ambassadorial delegations had left the reception well over an hour ago. 

From what Julian had overheard from his little corner table, the reception was the grand finale of a weeklong summit over a new trade route the Talarians wanted to establish with the Romulan Empire. He’d gathered that the dialogue had been pretty tense over the last few days, especially since the proposed route to the Glintara sector would cut right through both Federation and Cardassian territories. The delegates probably didn’t have the energy to socialize well into the night after a long and difficult week of negotiations, and it seemed that many of them were leaving early in the morning as well. 

It hadn’t escaped his notice that the Cardassian delegation had been one of the first to call it a night. 

There could be any number of reasons for that, he reasoned. Their ambassador was probably exhausted. After all, the trade agreement directly involved use of their space; no doubt he and his cohort were involved in every minute of every meeting. And maybe they were one of the groups with an early departure the next morning. Really, it was downright ridiculous to think that they could be up to something.

Julian exhaled sharply and glared down at the dregs of his second Andorian ale. _No, it’s not ridiculous at all. Because of him._

His thoughts kept winding through looping patterns of suspicion. It was probably unfair to consider the entire Cardassian delegation suspect. He knew from firsthand observation that the Obsidian Order often moved silently under the radar, answering to no command but their own, their missions and actions sometimes unknown even to the highest-ranked officials. It was entirely possible that the ambassador and the rest of his entourage had no idea who Garak really worked for or what he might be up to. 

_If_ he was up to anything. It was a little strange that Garak hadn’t given him an alias; but then again, there was no way that this Garak could know that he knew that, so maybe he thought his name was as good as an alias in this case, at least with a non-Cardassian, and maybe it wasn’t even the name he was using with his cohort, just to cause even more confusion, and– 

_\--and it is just so damn typical that he’s got me all tied up in knots without even batting an eye!_

They hadn’t conversed again. The young Cardassian had carefully ignored him after they’d parted and remained close to his ambassador’s side for the rest of the evening, quietly watchful, respectfully allowing his elders to dominate the conversation. Julian had tried to keep his attention mobile but his gaze was inexorably drawn back to Garak over and over again, as though his reasons for being here might be revealed if Julian just waited long enough. 

But for all their mutual effort toward avoidance their eyes had in fact met once more, and even that brief bit of non-physical contact had been more than enough to provoke a burst of erotic heat so potent that even after the flash had worked its way through him and finally subsided, his limbs were still wobbly and he was left with this brazen, exposed sensation; as though he’d gone up like a flare right in the middle of the ballroom for everyone to see. 

He’d made a point of keeping his eyes averted from the group of Cardassians from there on out. It was almost a relief when they left, even if it meant that Garak was now out of his sight and up to who knows what sort of trouble. Still, at least now he could freely think over all that had happened without the risk of snapping out of his contemplation to discover that his gaze had strayed once again. 

He had to admit that his behavior toward Garak had been fairly outrageous, especially according to Cardassian customs regarding propriety in formal settings. And he knew his flirting had been downright shameless -- showing off his knowledge, starting an argument, issuing a direct challenge -- but nothing had ever come of that sequence back home. When he’d tried it on his Garak, the older man would allow the game to only play so far; in the end he always smiled his mild tailor’s smile and deflected the challenge. Always so controlled, so careful. 

But tonight – tonight he’d experienced something entirely new. He’d had this Garak hissing at him with cold fury one moment and backing down with a molten, welcoming smile in the next. It was both heart-stopping and frustrating, for the sensual promises latent in that ebb and flow were more than enough to make him ache with unfulfilled want. 

He’d never figured out what to do with his attraction to the older man. Garak was apparently content with the endless flirtation, and truth be told Julian wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to take steps to deepen their relationship into a sexual entanglement -- whatever it was they had was complicated enough already. But still, there were far too many times in the past few years where, strung along and keyed up, he’d fled to his holosuite programs for release in the arms of beautiful, willing scientists and KGB agents, avoiding Garak for days and wondering whether the current state of affairs was actually _more_ complicated than the alternative. And encountering young Garak here was oddly reminiscent of that first time the spy had unexpectedly crashed one of his programs, dousing his attempt to play secret agent with icy cold embarrassment while simultaneously bringing his frustrated arousal to its boiling point…

He clenched his hand around his drink, but he was denied the shock of coolness that he sought, for his body heat had long since leached the chill out of the glass. Whatever had prompted young Garak to respond the way he had, he knew there was absolutely nothing for it. What was done was done, and soon he would go back to his own dangerous time and his own frustrating Garak. 

Which made him wonder -- he knew Garak had exceptional control over his mind, thanks both to his Cardassian pedigree and his Obsidian Order training; so would this little encounter be of enough significance to Garak for him to recall? His temporal mechanics instructor back at the Academy had assigned them about a dozen theorems for calculating the probability that an unintended meeting would be remembered. All things being equal he would be tempted to run through the calculations, but there was one crucial rule that he had learned over the past few years that Starfleet textbooks definitely didn’t cover: that rules of any kind never seemed to apply to Garak. 

Besides, it could very well be that all his concerns were moot anyway. His instructors never put as much stock in predestination paradoxes as Julian firmly believed that they ought. Whatever was going to happen tonight, whatever this young Garak might be doing, there was nothing that he could do but stay the hell out of the way and let it all unfold the way it was meant to…

Even though what he really wanted, more than anything, was to chase down the mystery and unravel the intrigue…

…and when all was revealed and the case was closed, he’d claim his victor’s prerogative, doing whatever it would take to coax that man into fulfilling all of those hot, unspoken promises…

He caught sight of a group of Starfleet officers moving toward the door. With a final swig of his tepid ale he left his little table and followed after them, setting all thoughts of Garak aside for the time being. Conflating holodeck-inspired fantasy with reality was never wise, especially when reality was already making too much of a mockery of his equilibrium. Time to get back to the business of getting out of here. 

Spotting a courtesy map on the wall just outside of the ballroom, he came to a stop at a window just to the right and pretended to admire the view of the city while studying the layout out of the corner of his eye. The tenth level looked promising: the east and west wings held guest quarters, but there was a bridge on the eastern side that dead-ended in a small meeting lounge where he could probably find some privacy. 

His trip up the turbolift was thankfully uneventful, and the tenth floor hallways were silent. The map in the lobby had a general roster of floor assignments for the delegates. He peered closely at the list through narrowed eyes and heaved a sigh. 

_Of course._

The Cardassians were staying on this floor, which Julian felt was fairly convincing evidence to support his current theory that the space-time continuum, for some reason, seemed to have it in for him. Impulsive little half-formed thoughts of reconnaissance and surveillance teased and tempted his better judgment as he moved quickly down the hall.

Slipping through the meeting room door, he took a cleansing breath and glanced about for the chronometer. 

0200\. Perfect. 

He tapped his combadge.“Bashir to Dax.”

“ _Dax here,_ ” she responded. “ _You’re right on time, Julian. Keep the comlink open for just a minute while I triangulate your position._ ” 

A beat passed. 

“So.” He winced at the chirpiness in his tone. “How is everything on your end?”

“ _It’s been pretty uneventful. No close calls, but getting the right uniform was a little tricky. How was the reception?_ ”

“Oh. It was fine. Well, you know, boring.” No sense in telling her everything right now, he reasoned. He really didn’t feel up to discussing it at the moment anyhow, and it was bad enough that she still wouldn’t let him live down that day in Ops years ago when he’d burst in giddy as a schoolboy over meeting Garak. Still, it was hard to be evasive with someone who was running on three hundred years of life experience. He was grateful she couldn’t see him. “Just lots of people talking about things.” _Right._ “So it was pretty uneventful, I’d say.”

“ _Well, that’s probably for the best,_ ” she said distractedly. “ _Okay, all set. Lay low, and make sure you’re back at your current position at 0500._ ”

“Got it. Will you be alright until then?”

“ _I’ll be fine. It’s pretty quiet here right now. How about you?_ ”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” he assured her. “There’s that infirmary on the next floor, the one we wanted to try and salvage. I might go see if there’s an empty bunk, take a little nap.” 

“ _Sounds good. If all goes well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Give or take twenty-five years. Dax out._ ” 

Julian took a moment to set his combadge to quietly alert him five minutes before the beam out time. Official business over again for the time being, he dithered for a moment before finally leaving the room, meandering back toward the turbolift lobby and planning what he would say if he encountered any late-night staff at the infirmary.

He turned a corner and stopped dead. 

Garak was coming right toward him. 

_Oh-!_

His heart leapt into his throat and he choked out a strangled gasp, shocked by the speed and intensity of the arousal that stormed through his blood. 

Garak looked up and came to a sudden halt. Julian saw an unchecked look of surprise flash across his features, but the Cardassian quickly recovered and approached with a bold smile and an expansive sweep of a hand. 

“Good evening, Doctor! It is good to see you again. I trust all is well?” 

Wide-eyed, his expression open, Garak was the very portrait of innocence -- but after all the worry and the frustration and the years of playing games with his Garak and the devastating affect this Garak’s presence was currently having on his body, that look of blamelessness was just enough to set Julian’s teeth on edge. 

“Why, Mister Garak. Yes, everything is fine. You’re out rather late, aren’t you?” 

Garak’s eyes flickered at the bite in his tone. “One could say the same of you, Doctor.” 

“I’m just out for a little stroll.”

“On official business?” 

“I wouldn’t be _strolling_ if I were on official business.” 

“ _Un_ official business, then?” 

_Oh God, he must think I’m a stalker. Or a pervert. Or hell, maybe even a spy, who knows, and honestly, it’s only a thin line that separates all those things, isn’t it?_ A tad uncertain now, he defiantly replied: “It’s not what you’re thinking.” 

“That’s the second time this evening that you’ve made assumptions about my thoughts,” Garak gently accused, his voice sliding like a cool silken caress over Julian’s hot, rattling nerves. “Now let me see: you are out on an _unofficial_ stroll, one which brings you here, right outside my guest quarters, at this indecorous time of night? Tell me, Doctor, what _should_ I be thinking?” 

Julian heard the faint, intimate whisper of cloth swishing against cloth and realized it was the sound of his uniform brushing against Garak’s coat. Once again they were standing nearly flush against each other. 

Blue eyes, alight with some secret heat, appraised him from under dusky eyeridges.

“Are you here to discuss more literature?” Garak tipped up his chin, bringing his pale lips close enough that Julian could just feel their warmth on his own. It was a gesture that his instincts received as a challenge and an offering, a dare to stake his claim on a willing subject. Those lips parted once more, breathing seductive words into his mouth: “If that were all you were here for, Doctor, I have to admit that I would be _quite_ disappointed.” 

There was nothing in the universe, no training, no experience, nothing at all that could have prepared him to face Garak like this -- so young while also so _him_ in the cast of those eyes, the lilt of that voice, even the scent of his skin. Nothing could have readied him to have his desire ruthlessly turned against him, employed as a form of merciless torture by the spy with the boyish face. The aching torment of unfulfilled pleasure washed over him like a tidal force and knew he could drown in paradox were it not for clear blue eyes firmly anchoring him here in the moment and offering him permission to fixate on simpler promises and sweeter, more immediate possibilities.

_Actions, reactions, consequences…_

This is insane! 

This game they were playing had reached an impasse: continue on or refuse? And which was least likely to cause an interstellar incident? At this point he really couldn’t say, and as far as he knew there were no theorems that could help him out now. 

_Actions…_

But there was at least one thing he could be certain about: this man really wasn’t the sort to kiss and tell.

_Reactions…_

And right now Garak was so very much like pure oxygen and he a man starved of air, his body as dry as a box of kindling hovering on the point of ignition, craving the strike of the match even though it would mean certain destruction.

He closed his eyes against the consequences and took Garak’s lips in a fierce kiss. 

It was rough and messy but so very exquisite in its intensity. His entire body hummed with victory – _finally, finally!_ – and in a burst of primal joy his hands shot up to seize Garak’s upper arms in a hard grip and pull the Cardassian against him. For a moment he was disoriented by the feel of the man in his arms – not nearly as sturdy as his senses had expected, not quite the build of the body he’d imagined so many times before, him but not him...

Grey hands pressed flat against his chest and he thought he sensed a thread of tension going taut within the other man, but before his brain could begin to process orders to stand down the hesitation evaporated and Garak’s body was shamelessly melting into his, hands falling to Julian’s waist and restlessly smoothing up his flanks, scorching his already superheated skin through the coarse texture of his uniform and reducing all remnants of coherent thought to ash and smoke. 

Julian’s kisses were hungry, demanding, and his companion met him with equal force. After a few moments those full lips yielded against his, and the sensation of Garak’s tongue flicking teasingly against his mouth sent sharp spikes of pleasure right to his groin. With a sharp intake of breath, he took what was offered with very little gentleness, deepening the kiss, penetrating the warmth of that inviting mouth with his tongue. His hands restlessly groped over the other man’s arms, back, waist, never finding purchase, still unsatisfied, the contact not nearly enough. 

Garak broke the kiss with a little gasp and nipped playfully at Julian’s mouth, pressing little kisses to his lips as he pulled away from their embrace and started to tug him backwards. A muffled, pained moan escaped Julian’s throat at the loss of body contact, and raising his hands to cup Garak’s face, he surged in for another kiss, throwing his weight against the other man with enough force to send them careening sideways into a door. They landed with a sharp thump, their mouths still working in frenzied, unbroken tandem as Garak’s hand blindly slapped out at the controls, the door whispering open to let them stumble inside. 

Quickly getting his bearings inside the darkened room, Julian whirled and crowded Garak back against the door right as it closed behind them, pressing a thigh between the Cardassian’s legs and leaning into him hard as he rocked his arousal against Garak’s hip, yearning to imprint his heat into each and every scale. Teeth gently closed on his lower lip, pricking him with the slightest sting as his fingers fumbled gracelessly at the closures on Garak’s coat, yanking away the primly tailored collar.

Garak made a little sound of protest. “Careful with that, if you please! I just had it made–”

Julian bit down on the exposed neck ridge at the curve between neck and shoulder, eliciting a surprised cry of delight from his companion. Strong fingers tightly gripped his shoulders, and the pressure was almost as glorious as the friction of Garak’s body writhing maddeningly against his. 

“Doctor,” Garak gasped after a few seconds, “you seem to have me at a disadvantage.” 

“Oh?” Julian hummed as he nipped and licked and teased his way up leathery soft scales on one side before lavishing equally disjointed but no less enthusiastic attention down the other. 

“You seem to know a thing or two about Cardassians, but I -- I’m not entirely sure what to do with you.” 

Julian lifted his head at the unexpected note of uncertainty. Fitful lights from the city and the uneven glow from the moons through the slatted window cast shadows across Garak’s face, and his fingers reached up to skim the fine scales on that round jawline, watching blue eyes shutter with pleasure at the caress. Aggressive and yielding, formal and sensual, cautious and shameless -- the alluring mix of contradictions this man embodied was perhaps the most arousing thing about him. A devilish grin spread across Julian’s face at the sight the Cardassian made: dark hair tousled and clothing askew, panting and breathless from his touch. He didn’t need the mirror of Garak’s eyes to know that he was just as powerfully affected. 

The perfect response came to him like a gift. “I’ve got time,” he promised loftily, and in the next moment his stomach quivered and legs weakened when blue eyes slowly opened and met his gaze with a dark, focused intensity. 

Garak’s lips curved in a knowing smile as he took Julian’s hand and pulled him toward the bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Julian was gently roused from a shallow slumber by quiet footsteps and the rustle of clothing sliding against skin. He laid still, eyes closed, and let the stream of impressions from his waking senses gradually catch up to his brain. 

_sleepy – naked – molten – sated -- warm exotic scent, soft bed, too soft, not mine…_

_Home!_

A cold rush of panic jolted him into full awareness. 

_What time--?_

He jerked his head up to check the bedside chronometer -- 

_0430._

He huffed with relief, plopping his head back down on the pillow. That molten feeling in his body was cooling rapidly, his muscles turning brittle with sudden tension. He breathed in slowly, willing the panicked pounding of his heart to slow while he turned his face toward the window. The setting third moon and the rising sun dappled the floor and walls with indecisive cool and warm light. Through the slats he could see skyscrapers, their red and blue neon signs bearing a passing resemblance to his holographic Hong Kong. 

A gentle dip of the mattress by his feet and a tentative hand on his knee quickened his heartbeat again. His skin flushed with equal parts embarrassment and arousal as the touch brought to mind the wonderfully lewd things he’d been doing over the past couple hours – and the man he’d been doing them with. He drew himself up onto his elbows and sheepishly looked up at a fully dressed Garak. The young Cardassian gazed back at him with an unreadable expression, the strap of a travel bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I must go. My convoy is leaving,” Garak said.

For a long moment Julian just stared, muddled by the contrast of his body’s drowsy afterglow and the shock of waking up in alarm. He thought at once of his fictional life, where he always got to be the masterful spy who takes his leave of the evening’s lovely companion with a witty farewell. But those one-liners were always preset in his mind beforehand, and none of them seemed all that clever to him right now, away from the fantasy. What could he possibly say? He slowly pulled himself up to sitting position, the cool air of the room prickling his flushed skin as the sheet fell to his waist. Dozens of possibilities, most of them ludicrous and none of them witty, flitted through his mind. 

_Don’t forget me? Please forget me? I’ll see you in twenty-five years and oh by the way I’ll look the same as I do now?_

_Should I be thanking you for not killing me in my sleep?_

When he said nothing, Garak gave him a little nod and stood. Julian snagged his hand as it was drawing away. Garak stopped and looked down at him. 

“That was brilliant,” he finally said, and the simple truth of it made him smile in spite of himself. 

Garak offered a little smile in return. “So it was. I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever had a literary discussion come to anything like this.”

Julian blinked as the words struck him, wistfulness welling up like blood from a wound. “Neither have I,” he murmured. 

Garak paused and studied him with searching eyes. “Perhaps it is a shame that our people are so distant,” he said quietly. He gave Julian’s fingers a little squeeze before letting go, and dipped that little bow of the shoulders. “Farewell, Doctor.” 

A whisper of the door, and he was gone. 

Julian clapped his hands to the sides of his head and fell back onto the bed with a groan. 

He’d allowed his impulsive nature to lead him into some very awkward post-coital situations, but this one went above and beyond; at least in the past he’d managed to avoid violating the spirit of the Temporal Prime Directive in a sexual encounter. Not that he’d ever thought very highly of temporal displacement policies in the first place. But although a crash lesson in carnal anatomy with a man he knew to be a spy and assassin was inadvisable but nevertheless unlikely to have any global impact, there was one major consequence he had totally failed to think through: how was his Garak going to respond?

Any doubts he’d had before about Garak remembering him were gone now; if he were to prompt Garak with the context he would almost certainly be able to put the pieces together. 

With a deep sigh, he lurched out of bed, cleaned up and dressed, and carefully replaced his combadge in its hiding place before leaving the room, far too overwhelmed to focus on any one thought. With heavy feet he started to head toward the meeting lounge to wait out the next half hour safely in solitude, but a small commotion coming from the west wing drew his attention. Redirecting his steps, he paused in the turbolift lobby to take in the scene.

A small group of ambassadorial staff nervously hovered around the door of a suite, and Starfleet security officers darted in and out of the room like agitated bees. He heard a sharp command come from within: “We need a medical team up here!”

His brooding fog evaporated as his professional instinct immediately kicked into high gear. “I’m a doctor,” he called out, jogging up to the door. “What’s happened?”

A security officer waved him over. “It’s the ambassador – he won’t wake up!”

Julian knelt at the bedside of a man who looked to be Human, probably in his mid-sixties. Someone shoved a tricorder into his field of vision, which he accepted without looking up. It was an awkward and unwieldy piece of equipment that was not calibrated for medical scans, but it gave him just enough to determine that the ambassador was unconscious but not in any mortal danger for the moment. “He’s in a deep sleep. His vitals are reading as though he’s in a coma. Is there a medical scanner somewhere?”

The same security officer was speaking briskly into a comm unit on the wall. She broke off for a moment to answer. “A medical team is on the way, sir.” 

Julian nodded and turned back to his patient, fiddling with the tricorder controls and cursing their inefficiency, half-listening to the security officer’s report. 

“Yes, Admiral,” she said. “It’s the representative from the Setlik system.”

Julian froze, swallowing hard against a sudden wave of nausea.

 _Setlik…_

Clenching the tricorder with clammy hands, he passed the scanner over the ambassador by rote, staring down at the readings without really seeing them. It was as though all of his senses dipped down to minimal power in order to allow his entire attention to focus in on the swirl of conversation around him. More and more voices added into the texture as the room crowded with Starfleet personnel, and he listened to bits and pieces of the sonic tapestry of orders being given in disjointed counterpoint. 

“Kaplan – check the ambassador’s computer for tampering…” 

“…flowers…ambassador’s aide doesn’t remember…”

“Inara – get a team up here to do a full security sweep...”

“…Boothby showed me…aren’t they Romulan?”

“…run two separate file scans...”

“Scan for explosives…”

“…any information copied or deleted…”

His combadge twittered softly. The sound was completely unlike any other issued from the technology in the room but it nevertheless only faintly penetrated his awareness. It twittered again before his mind made the cognitive connection between the sound and its meaning. 

It was time. 

Standing made him dizzy, as though he had just taken several lungfuls of pure oxygen. He handed off his tricorder to someone next to him and muttered something about needing to make a call before stumbling out of the room and pressing through the growing throng of curious delegates and Starfleet personnel.

He ducked into the meeting room and gasped for air, realizing that he’d barely drawn a breath since leaving the ambassador’s suite. “Bashir to Dax,” he said, swallowing heavily. “I’m ready.”

The familiar feeling of transport swept over him, and within moments the familiar sight of the Defiant’s transporter room coalesced before his eyes. Jadzia materialized on the other pad and she grinned at him. He managed a tight smile in response.

Sisko’s anxious voice filtered from above. “Bridge to Transporter Room. Do you have them?” 

Jadzia smoothly stepped off the platform. “We’re here, Captain, safe and sound. I hope everything’s still where we left it.”

“I hope so too. You two had better get up to the Wardroom.”

Julian numbly followed Jadzia out the door. An Ensign was waiting for them with PADDs, one for each of them, their service records and biographies loaded and ready for their perusal. He scrolled through with preternatural speed as they made their way down the hall and into the turbolift. His parents, his genetic enhancements, medical school, making Salutatorian, his career, his psych profile, current events…it all looked exactly the same, all the way down to the preganglionic fibers and postganglionic nerves. 

So his faith in the predestination paradox might be justified after all. Part of him felt that he ought to be relieved that history was apparently unaltered, but all in all it was rather cold comfort. But the only person he could reasonably be angry with was himself. 

He knew what Garak was, what he had been, had some idea of the things he’d done, the things he was capable of; but apparently he’d come to trust Garak much more than he’d realized, and he’d foolishly extended that benefit of the doubt to young Garak -- a man who owed him absolutely nothing. And in doing so, it looked as though he’d managed to unwittingly place himself on the periphery of a massacre. 

Anxiety wrapped its cold grip around his heart as they stepped off the turbolift and crossed the bridge, but to his relief Garak wasn’t on duty. He wasn’t ready to face him, not now, and he seriously doubted that he would ever be ready to look upon the man without flushing at the memory of the room he’d only left a half hour ago, of the feel of supple scales arching and rippling against his belly, of challenging blue eyes gone sultry with satiation…

As Jadzia started running down history and current events with Sisko, Julian thought back to the first week of Temporal Mechanics 101. They’d spent a lot of their time discussing chaos theory; nearly an entire hour was spent on the butterfly effect – he’d counted down every single irritating second – and how even the smallest disturbance could spawn actions and reactions that could have incalculable consequences. But it was all so subtly random: the effects of the meekest little flap of wings in a chaotic system may be virtually undetectable at first, maybe even predictable. But then massive, unpredictable twists would come to pass. 

He’d never put much stock in the ways this theory was applied to time travel. But he was beginning to wonder if could be applied to people. If there was anyone stubborn enough to try and control the chaos with methods wholly unpredictable, it was Elim Garak. 

End (for now…)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The anomaly takes them back about 25 years, right before the massacre at Setlik III and the start of the Federation-Cardassian Wars. Julian is about 33, and the young!Garak in this story is in his early-mid 20s.


End file.
